Cost: Two courses with tea/coffee: £20-£25 per head. No corkage; no bookings

'No, no, don’t start. I’m begging you, leave them alone. Please…” If one thing is certain to spoil an otherwise glorious meal, it is the querulous, whiny voice of a fractious child at a nearby table.

At Alounak, to be precise, the relevant table was not nearby. It was ours; and the fractious child was, I blush to record, me. Making a return to this page is my mother, who may be familiar to you as history’s most nit-picking diner. In 1972, she sent back an under-strength cup of tea seven times in a Wimpy Bar, and the intervening four decades have seen her inexhaustible storehouse of complaints range from the length of a sommelier’s chin to the inclusion of egg – “surely they know about my cholesterol?” – in a dish listed, one could hardly say incautiously, as “egg and tomato egg salad”.

The problem at Alounak, a handsome if mildly gaudy Aladdin’s Cave-ish space, its brick walls festooned with twinkling lanterns, was that there was no problem at all. Unable to pick a nit with the decor (“I love that stained-glass door at the back”) or service (“quite charming”), boredom set in and a familiar gleam entered her eyes as they alighted upon the occupants of the next table. “Oh Jesus, please don’t,” erupted the petulant 11 year-old within. “Be quiet, Matthew. If I choose to converse, it’s no business of yours.”

And so began the cross-examination of a trio consisting of a mother, her adult daughter and another aged three. “Excuse me,” she announced herself, “but did you like what you ate? Was it lovely?” Apparently it was. “Have. You. From. Far. Away. Come?” she followed up in the very slow, supposedly Scandinavian brogue, the syntax styled after Yoda’s, she used to reserve for Finnish au pairs on the first of what generally proved a maximum four-day stay with the Norman household.

Originally from Casablanca, our neighbours were over from their home in the French capital. “We always come when we are here,” said the elder daughter. “This is the best Persian restaurant in London.”

Not having eaten in every such (given the huge, post-revolution expat community, there are many) I cannot confirm this; but if there is a finer one, I’d be amazed. This bring-your-own restaurant doesn’t have any truck with reservations, and no wonder. By 7.30pm, the room was rammed and buzzing.

Any hope that the starters might staunch the inquisitory tide proved short-lived. For almost two minutes, my mother raved about the taftoon nan, a giant disc of fabulous, sesame seed-studded bread, served piping hot from the tandoor by the door, and the three dips. “This is the guv’nor,” she rightly observed of mirz am ghassemi, a gloriously smoky mash of chargrilled aubergine, fried onion, garlic and tomato. She also liked the hummus and a purée of boiled spinach and yogurt called boorami. Then she turned her attentions to the three year-old, and soon enough the family had made a hurried exit. “Do you think they’d had enough of me?” she asked. “Well, you did kiss the little girl unbidden.” “But she kissed me back.” “Yes, but you pushed your cheek towards her mouth and made puckery sounds. I’m not sure she had much choice.” “Nonsense, she adored me,” said my mother. “They all did. I’m a very special person.”

There was no disputing this, and calm descended for a while as we set about the main courses. The very word “kebab” is of Persian origin, so we majored in grilled meat – the two dishes we ordered were sensational. Chelo kabab makhsous conjoined a strip of delectably fatty minced lamb with a thinly sliced lamb fillet, the pair served with salad (dotted with jalapeño peppers), and saffron-tinged rice.

“That’s superb, but this chicken is unbelievable,” said my mother of what the menu calls “chicken boneless”, in which halal poultry is marinated in lemon and saffron for an alluringly orange finish, and grilled to juicy perfection.

Yet there is more to this underrated cuisine than healthy dips and grilled meats. We also shared the day’s special, chelo khoresh b adjeman, tender, flaky lamb casseroled with fried aubergine in a rich tomato sauce.

“This food is just wonderf…” my mother began, as the plates were cleared, “Aha, new neighbours!” As three merry young dudes were seated at the recently vacated next table, she initially took umbrage. “I could do without all the guffawing.” “They’re having fun.” “I don’t do fun. Fun must be stopped. I feel another conversation coming on.”

I took this as a cue to nip off and order her a minicab, and returned to the inevitable. “There is no question in my mind that this is London’s best Iranian. Do you agree?” she demanded. They did. “This is my son. He writes about restaur…” “Yes, thanks, good to meet you all, but that’s my mother’s cab and we’ll have to be off.”

“Well, I can’t think of a single thing that annoyed me,” she said as we departed. “Except that fish tank on the bar, which didn’t sing of a Persian restaurant to me.” “How many have you been to before?” “None, but don’t be silly. Now then, did anything irritate you?” she inquired, proffering a cheek and puckering. “No, no,” I said, obediently kissing. “Absolutely nothing at all.”